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We sat in the sheltered warmth of the little garden for another two hours whilst Finn sat at my feet and smoked cigarette after cigarette and slowly came back to himself. He sat with his eyes closed and I guessed if anyone was capable of sleep-smoking, it was him. Meanwhile I worked at the myriad knots of muscle in his neck and shoulders with my fingers until they all but disappeared, wishing that I could erase the scars that marked him there as deftly.
Once I was sure that my fury had abated sufficiently to let me get behind the wheel of a car without ploughing down random pedestrians I drove straight into the centre of town and parked outside the same church where Finn had finally shattered.
Chapter Seven
Finn
After a fun morning of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy –just the task of listing the considerable amount of ‘behaviours and thoughts I wished to change’ looked like it might take a few years – I was rewarded with an afternoon’s peace. I spent it in my room, listening to a new Spanish language course on an app that Nat had loaded onto my phone and reading the latest edition of Gardening World.
There was a soft knock on my door. “Come in,” I called, expecting Dr Cavendish or Luis, but instead a stout, middle-aged man in a black suit and a dog collar stepped into my room.
“It’s Finn, isn’t it?” He pronounced my name ‘Feen’, as did most of the locals, but his accent seemed to be a blend of Spanish and American. “I’m Padre Vicente Baroja, priest at Santa María Magdalena. It’s good to meet you.” He walked over to my bed and extended a hand. I shook it, but must have looked particularly baffled because he gave me a warm smile and added, “Lilith suggested you might appreciate a visit. Well to be honest with you, she called in a favour.”
I had no clue as to what kind of favour a Catholic Priest might owe Lilith Bresson, professional atheist. I was lost for words.
“If you want me to leave, it’s really not a problem. It’s not my intention to disturb you,” the priest said.
“No – I mean, it’s good of you to call on me. I just… I’m not… Shit – sorry, Father – well I’m not what you’d call the best advert for Catholicism,” I whittered.
“From what Lilith has told me, I believe any apology should come from me,” the priest said. “May I sit down?”
“Oh. Er, sure.” I made a vague gesture towards the chair by my bed. “Your English is excellent,” I said, lost for anything else to say.
“Thank you.” Father Baroja smiled. “I’m what you’d call a mongrel; my father was from Texas and my Mom’s Mexican. I served ten years as a padre in the United States Army and begged the powers that be for the quietest parish on the planet once I’d done my second tour of Afghanistan. I pretty much got what I asked for with Santa Marita.”
“Right until some whack-job decided to have a melt-down in your doorway, huh?”
“I was out of town that night, I’m sorry to say. I hate to think of you finding the sanctuary locked; if I’d have been there - ”
“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” I said then added, “Um, you mentioned that Lilith had already said something to you?”
“She gave me a brief summary of your circumstances, no more than that. I got the feeling that she would leave it up to you to decide if you wanted to disclose anything more to me once we met.” He gave a soft chuckle. “I was also threatened with a particularly unfortunate end if I made the situation worse; the last time I was in fear of my life like that, I was on patrol in Helmand.”
“Yeah, that would be Lilith,” I said. “You still came, though.”
“Lilith drove me here. She’s waiting outside with an ice-pick just in case I put a foot wrong.”
“Oh God, she bloody kidnapped you,” I said, only half-joking. I wouldn’t have put it past her.
“Well our town’s resident artist is certainly persuasive, but I honestly didn’t need any convincing when she asked me if I’d come and speak with you; I’d do the same for any of my parishioners. I’m here if you need me, Finn.”
My first instinct was to ask him to leave so I could get on with learning how to conjugate a few Spanish irregular verbs because there wasn’t a chance he was going to be able to do anything to help, but at some point in my life I was going to have to expand my circle of trust beyond Lilith, Nat and Ed. And if this was a priest that Lilith herself trusted, I guessed it was time to channel a little of her fearlessness.
“D’you want me to sort some coffee before we talk?” I asked, as casually as I could manage.
“Coffee would be good,” the priest said. “And take all the time you need. The words will come when they’re ready.”
Ten minutes later I stood by my window, coffee in hand, and looked out over the woodland. Imagined Lilith standing next to me.
And spoke.
“So. When I was thirteen, I was raped by a priest…”
*****
Father Baroja sat in contemplative silence as I told my tale. Second time around it was shorter and even marginally easier; confiding in Lilith first had helped in that I could distance myself from the words, but I knew that it still sounded as grim as all fuck. To give the priest his due he didn’t flinch at any of it, and once I’d finished he didn’t dive in to fill the silence with comforting chatter or platitudes. I could respect him for that.
“Thank you for your trust,” he said once I was done, looking me straight in the eye. “You’re an exceptionally brave young man.”
